


The Cost of the Sky

by emeralddarkness



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dark, Drabble, Eöl is a creep, F/M, Implied dubcon, lots of implications actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1296292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeralddarkness/pseuds/emeralddarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon she will be free again.</p><p>A series of moments from life under the trees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cost of the Sky

Tsk and tsk, tsk and tsk, tsk and tsk. The shuttle sighs as though in mourning as it passes through the loom. Her hands are red from their work, her sleeves are like snow against the green of the fabric. Soon she will be free again. But, for now, she weaves her freedom.

The meadow in her tapestry is covered in flowers, and in it horses toss their heads. Hers is gone, and has been gone, for many years. It may only still live on in her tapestries.

There are times she dreams of something different, beyond the darkness of the trees outside, when she dreams of her brothers come to find her. In a minute such dreams are gone. But her shuttle still remains, and in it are images of a world she could not find.

-

One day, she will love him.

He assures her of this, and takes her hand with such tenderness that there are times she almost believes him.

He does not like her weaving, he tells her that it makes her noble hands rough. She weaves anyway, until there is no more thread, and then picks apart her dresses and dyes the new thread with her blood.

She does not weave of freedom any more.

-

Shh and shh, shh and shh, shh and shh. The leaves from the seeds she has planted rustle in the wind that whispers through the trees, stretching fresh green buds up, trembling, towards the errant beams of sun. Soon she will be free again. But, for now, there are her plants to grow towards the light.

The darkness here is pervasive, and the sunlight is rare and precious; many things that would otherwise grow choke and falter for the lack of it. His house is no exception, nor is she. There are times she can feel herself choke for lack of sunlight.

Whenever she wanders, she finds herself once again where she started. But there are beams that spill through the tangled, overhanging branches, and they have tasted the wild, unfettered air above.

-

She cannot see the horizon, nor the sun, nor moon, nor stars. This is her greatest loss. She would name them one by one, once. Whenever she considers this, memories of starlight under the golden light of Laurelin and the silver light of Telperion fill her until she feels she will lose anything more that she has left, as anything remaining is washed away by a flood of light. The only light here is fire and the dim green glow that the leaves allow through the canopy. Only where the trees are less thick do dappled bars of sunlight find their way to the forest floor, and they are thick nearly everywhere. The few spills of light are not enough.

He will sit with her, and ask what she is thinking of, and memories of the light before the Sun and Moon fill her throat and brain and spill through her mouth. He asks about the trees, and the flowers dotting the meadow as the stars dot the heavens, and then tells her it is in the past.

The trees in the canopy cast new leaves, and strangle the sunlight that reaches the forest floor. All of her seedlings die.

-

Tap and tap, tap and tap, tap and tap. She piles pebbles from the stream to guide her in her wandering, as white and shining as her dress. Soon, she will be free again. But, for now, she looks for rocks, and with them marks her trails.

Nothing shines in the dimness of the trees, except the very purest of white. Pebbles of that sort are difficult to find. She mourns that she has no pearls.

She sews a pouch to keep them in, and every night runs them through her hands. It never seems to fill, but she consoles herself that with patience it shall, and can lead her a shining path through the trees.

-

He tells her that this forest is enchanted. Perhaps he could lead her out, should she marry him.

What can she do but believe him, when she has seen how very easy it is to wander in circles? She makes a trail of shining white as she wanders, but her pebbles do not see her to the edge of the wood, and despite her care she loses the path.

Her life is tenuous as a sand castle, built of silver sand and pearl on the shining beaches of Aman. She can feel her walls begin to crumble.

And the tide comes in.

-

Tss and tss, tss and tss, tss and tss. The leaves crackle under her feet, rustling against each other as she wanders through the forest. There is sunlight, in the autumn and winter, spilling through empty branches. A few trees with branches spreading low are close enough to climb and sit in the bitter winds, closer to the sun. She did not always need to take such care, but things had changed when she had come to him. Now her movements are slow and careful, for there is another life within her, and it is more easily damaged than she. It was a sacrifice she had made when she'd given him her hand. She would not sacrifice her wandering. Soon she’ll feel free again. But, for now, she knows she’s not.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
